© Walt Browning 2019
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design by Deranged Doctor Design
Edited by Sara Jones
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.
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The Extinction Survival Series
Lost Valley
Satan’s Gate
Contents
Foreword by Nicholas Sansbury Smith
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Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
Foreword
by Nicholas Sansbury Smith
Dear Reader,
Thank you for picking up a copy of Satan’s Gate by Walt Browning. This is the second book in the Extinction Survival series. The first book (Lost Valley) was originally published through Amazon’s Extinction Cycle Kindle World. The story transcended to far more than fan fiction, but unfortunately, Amazon ended the Kindle Worlds program in July of 2018. Authors were given a chance to republish or retire their stories, and I jumped at the chance to republish the series through my small press, Great Wave Ink. Today, we’re proud to offer the Extinction Survival series in paperback, audio, and to readers outside of the United States for the first time ever.
For those of you that are new to the Extinction Cycle storyline, the series is the award winning, Amazon top-rated, and half a million copy best-selling seven book saga. There are over six thousand five-star reviews on Amazon alone. Critics have called it, “World War Z and The Walking Dead meets the Hot Zone.” Publishers weekly added, “Smith has realized that the way to rekindle interest in zombie apocalypse fiction is to make it louder, longer, and bloodier … Smith intensifies the disaster efficiently as the pages flip by, and readers who enjoy juicy blood-and-guts action will find a lot of it here.”
In creating the Extinction Cycle, my goal was to use authentic military action and real science to take the zombie and post-apocalyptic genres in an exciting new direction. Forget everything you know about zombies. In the Extinction Cycle, they aren’t created by black magic or other supernatural means. The ones found in the Extinction Cycle are created by a military bio-weapon called VX-99, first used in Vietnam. The chemicals reactivate the proteins encoded by the genes that separate humans from wild animals—in other words, the experiment turned men into monsters. For the first time, zombies are explained using real science—science so real there is every possibility of something like the Extinction Cycle actually happening. But these creatures aren’t the unthinking, slow-minded, shuffling monsters we’ve all come to know in other shows, books, and movies. These “variants” are more monster than human. Through the series, the variants become the hunters as they evolve from the epigenetic changes. Scrambling to find a cure and defeat the monsters, humanity is brought to the brink of extinction.
We hope you enjoy the Extinction Survival series and continue to the main storyline in the Extinction Cycle.
Best wishes,
Nicholas Sansbury Smith, NYT Bestselling Author of the Extinction Cycle
— 1 —
Senior Chief Petty Officer (SCPO) Rayford “Porky” Shader
Operation Liberty
Five Miles Off the California Coast
USS Theodore Roosevelt
Long is the way
And hard, that out of hell leads up to light.
JOHN MILTON
Paradise Lost
Like many of the military’s elite operators, Senior Chief Petty Officer Porky Shader loved structure and control, even though his chosen profession brought chaotic situations with each deployment. As a Navy SEAL, Shader was often called on to infiltrate enemy-held territory and do bad things. That meant putting himself into situations that were, by definition, unstructured and out of his control.
But a successful operation was 95 percent preparation and 5 percent luck. In Porky’s mind, the results of any well-planned mission were a foregone conclusion, given the time and effort that went into the planning stage. Every conceivable circumstance was practiced, and adjustments made, to maximize the chances of having the desired outcome.
When the outbreak started, it rapidly became evident that this was an extinction-level event caused by a virus that was created by the species it was destroying. The irony of that fact wasn’t lost on anyone. Because of the seriousness of the situation, the military responded with a rapid and confused retreat. Shader understood that desperate measures had been needed.
But the Navy ran on a strict diet of rules and regulations, and he knew a counterattack would eventually come, but at a time and place of the military’s choosing. Therefore, it was no surprise that almost a month later, news reached him of a nationwide attempt to retake the country’s major cities. The mission, dubbed Operation Liberty, was in its final developmental stages. His initial reaction was one of hope. Maybe they had come up with a way to turn the tide on the viral outbreak.
After Shader attended his first strategic planning meeting, he began to worry the mission had been doomed from the start, either by inexperienced leadership or out of sheer desperation to save the country.
What made it worse was that most of the information provided at that meeting was unintelligible to everyone without a PhD. No one had a clue what the hell they were being told.
“Our drone overflights indicate the infection has destroyed over 98 percent of the population,” Major Poole had said. Poole was with naval intelligence and in direct contact with the remnants of the civilian government. “With their rabid need to feed,” he continued, “we estimate that out of an initial count of thirteen million residents, there are now fewer than fifty thousand infected remaining in the greater Los Angeles area. The rest have become food.”
The crowd of NCOs and officers let out a collective groan. The battle group had fewer than fifteen thousand soldiers, sailors, and Marines at their disposal. Of those, less than a third were fighters, while the rest were support personnel.
“How is this a good thing?” asked Admiral Abernathy, the strike group commander. “That’s over ten to one against us. I don’t think starting a war with those odds is a winning hand to play.”
�
�I understand,” the condescending major replied, “but we’ve been observing the creatures for over a week now, and from what we’ve seen, it appears that they’re not doing well. There are fewer of them and their activity is limited and random.”
The admiral looked unconvinced.
“It is our theory,” Poole continued, “that the virus causes an epigenetic change that raises their metabolism to an unimaginable level. In short, they need massive amounts of protein to survive, and with fewer sources of food available, they are literally starving.”
“What the hell is ‘epigenetic’?” Shader whispered to a Marine staff sergeant sitting next to him.
“Like I know?” the man replied. “I need this talk like a bag of dicks. It’s completely worthless to me.”
The rest of the information the scientist shared flew over the group like a cold winter’s wind—neither wanted nor appreciated.
“Well, why don’t we just wait them out? Let them die off, and we can walk in and reclaim what is ours?” the admiral finally asked.
“Because, Admiral. Some of the creatures are starting to venture out of the city, looking for more sources of food. Our drones have been sending back pictures of groups of normal, uninfected people hiding outside of the major metropolitan areas. The virus hasn’t taken everyone out yet. If we don’t stop these things now, the infected will leave the urban areas in search of more food. Those who are safe today will be dead tomorrow.”
Admiral Abernathy leaned over and spoke quietly with Colonel Julio Weeks, the most senior surviving Marine Corps officer and the de facto leader of the group’s land forces. Almost a thousand men from Camp Pendleton and the 11th Marine Expeditionary Unit had been recovered. However, that represented less than half of the personnel that had been under their flag before the virus began.
After a short conversation, the admiral spoke loudly enough for all to hear. “All right. Let’s move forward with Operation Liberty. We need every healthy person possible to rebuild the country, and it’s our job to protect those that cannot protect themselves.”
Once the decision to go forward had been made, the rest of the confab became a blur in Shader’s mind. The confusion and lack of information made his head hurt well before the summit had concluded. The only thing he brought out of that meeting was a headache and a need to get drunk. Unfortunately, getting hammered wasn’t an option. Instead, he took his 800mg Motrin, washed it down with one belt of his personal supply of whiskey, and hit the rack.
During the following days of planning, he couldn’t shake his feelings of dread. They knew nothing about their new enemy, other than they were strong, relentless, and without fear. Shader didn’t trust fighting an enemy he didn’t understand.
Now, almost a week later, Operation Liberty had begun. As he sat in the back of a V-22 Osprey, his apprehensions were only amplified by the claustrophobic tube he was crammed into. Fortunately, the flight wasn’t expected to take more than twenty minutes.
When they first boarded the V-22, the Marines who had been put under his command marched up the Osprey’s rear drop-down ramp and split into two lines. Within moments, the bench seats that ran along both sides of the aircraft had been filled. Every nook was crammed with a warm body and their equipment. He had men smashed into him from both sides, while across the aisle he momentarily played footsies with the squad’s corpsman. The man stopped shoving Shader’s foot away when he finally looked up, saw the SCPO staring back at him. He wisely gave Porky the space.
Like most operators, Shader didn’t like to fly. More SEALs had been killed in helicopter accidents than by enemy fire, and the Osprey seemed even worse. It was like riding inside of an aluminum barrel with no view of the outside world. There were a couple small glass portals that were cut high on the airframe, but these only offered a view of the passing clouds. At least a Blackhawk had an open side door with a gunner strapped behind a Squad Automatic Weapon. The cocoon-like feeling of the vertically launched airplane he presently found himself in only added to his discomfort.
Shader logically knew his chances in the Osprey were no different than riding in a Blackhawk. But having an open helicopter door that allowed the wind to slap at his face was the way he had moved into battle his entire adult life. Now, he was using the Marines’ newest toy to lead his squad into the bowels of Los Angeles. It just felt wrong.
Porky marked the time observing the craft he was trapped in. The walls were covered with exposed hydraulic hoses, along with pipes carrying various electronic lines and cabling. Many of the tubes crisscrossed each other as they made their way fore and aft. There had been no attempt to cover the mess with an interior wall. That was an unnecessary and counterproductive luxury. With the computers, switches, and wiring all exposed, maintenance time was reduced, and efficiency enhanced. It was a reminder that the Osprey’s passengers weren’t worth the extra effort to make the ride more comfortable, and just like a failed component, they were all replaceable.
The Osprey finally began to bank to the right.
“Five minutes,” the Osprey’s crew chief yelled out.
Soon enough, the drone of the twin Rolls-Royce engines changed in pitch as the machine’s propellers began rotating upward. The Osprey started to descend as the craft magically transformed itself from an airplane into a twin-bladed helicopter. The men all looked apprehensively at Shader as their forward movement morphed into a rapid, vertical descent. What they saw was a determined, battle-hardened squad leader who was ready to kick ass. What they didn’t see was on the inside—a concerned and confused SEAL who had been given vague instructions along with even more nebulous operational goals.
“We’re going to take back the city” seemed to be the only consistent mission objective that leadership provided. There had been little in the way of contingency planning since they had sparse knowledge of the enemy and how it functioned. The few attempts to infiltrate the infected-held areas had all failed. So without on-the-ground intel, how could they prepare to fight a foe they didn’t know the first thing about? Aerial surveys did little other than provide a rough estimate of strength.
“Shoot them in the brain box. And, by the way, try not to get infected,” was the only guidance the N2 staff had given him. Sound advice.
As the craft began to settle down, Shader adjusted the web gear that was strapped over his battle dress uniform. He felt naked without the CBRN suit and would have normally worn it over his BDU. The biohazard equipment had become standard issue, but unfortunately, their situation was anything but typical. Even with all their scavenging raids, there simply were not enough of them for everyone. He was having mixed feelings about hitting the landing zone without the added protection.
Shader reached down and unclasped his harness just as the Osprey began to settle onto the ground. They had arrived.
The rear of the transport was already dropping down as Shader strode to the back. As he had done for almost three decades, he pulled a full magazine from its pouch, pushed it into the mag well, and slapped the bolt release. He instinctively rolled his rifle to the left and watched as the first .556 round slammed into the chamber. He verified that he had switched his rifle to “safe” mode and let the slung M4 drop down to his side.
With a new group of men under him, he quickly turned back to check on their status. He was gratified to see they were all standing and facing him. As instructed, their rifles were unloaded. “Weapons hot” would be accomplished after they left the aircraft. No one wanted an accidental discharge inside the computerized flying machine. One errant 62-grain hole in the wrong place would end the life of their craft.
Porky stepped off the back and scanned his surroundings. The Inglewood Forum parking lot had been chosen for several reasons, not the least of which was the lack of cars in the lot and a flat asphalt surface. That made an insertion with the Ospreys simple and quick.
Drone video also showed that the arena had many logistic advantages. There were several adjacent plots of land that were undeveloped and
gave the Marines a long field of fire, a rarity in the once crowded city. Detritus and some skeletal remains were scattered amongst the occasional abandoned cars, but for the most part, the space was empty. Drone footage of the surrounding neighborhoods also had shown little infected activity over the last week.
The Osprey wasn’t the quietest aircraft, and the twin engines were giving off plenty of noise. The blades had rotated and were now facing up. The giant propellers were still spinning, having been throttled back just enough to keep the craft on the ground but fast enough that just a little juice would send it back into the air.
Shader walked quickly to his assigned spot, lifted his battle rifle, and held it at low ready.
The Osprey’s engines began to whine at a higher pitch as it started to lift off. Shader turned around and was glad to see that his squad had completed a perimeter around the aircraft and that their battle rifles were loaded and pointed out, creating a 360° field of fire.
The Osprey’s crew chief, a Marine gunnery sergeant named Potoski, still stood in the open rear door. He had strapped himself onto the aircraft’s bulkhead and rotated a cantilevered metal bar with a SAW machine gun attached at the end. He was now a rear-door gunner. The V-22 would be flying overhead for a while, providing cover and relaying intel on any infected in their vicinity.
“We’ll let ya know if we see any of them Variants,” Potoski had said in his thick, Brooklyn accent, just before they lifted off for the mission.
“Variants?” Shader asked. “You mean the infected?”
“Yeah. But the eggheads call them Variants now. At least, that’s what we were told.”
“Shit. I just call them all fucked up. Just let me know when you see them and where they’re coming from,” Shader said.
“Gotch yer back,” Potoski replied.
The giant transport began to accelerate into the sky, and Shader watched the big Pole grab the charging handle of the squad automatic weapon, pull it back, and release. The SAW was ready to fire. The Marine gave a “thumbs up” as his bird rotated away, and Shader had just enough time to give the big Brooklyn grunt a quick wave before he disappeared.
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